Love Comes Calling (19 page)

I threw a glance at him. “Did you ever think maybe things would be better if I weren't here? At least then people wouldn't be mad at me all the time.”

“I'm not mad at you. I'm more mad at me. I should have realized the boys would wander across some liquor with all
the smuggling that goes on around here. And I shouldn't have put you in that situation up there in the . . . in the bedroom.” A flush stained his cheeks.

“But that's just what I mean. I always get people into trouble. Even people who don't mean to be or want to be. Everyone would be better off without me, don't you think?”

“I've never thought that. Not once. And
I
definitely wouldn't be better off without you.”

It was nice of him to say that, but I'm sure he didn't mean it. And I wouldn't let it dissuade me from my plan. Just because Griff had said all those nice things about me and just because he was good at kissing didn't mean I should stay. And besides, he had started down the path that would lead, as it had done for everyone else, to a full-fledged “Oh, Ellis!” I wasn't good for him. Anyone could see that.

When I got home that night, I pulled my Hollywood scrapbook out from underneath the mattress and went through my plan again. Once I got there, I'd go straight to Famous Players-Lasky Corporation and refuse to work with any director but Alan Crosland, because he was the best there was. And there would be palm trees and Spanish villas and swimming pools and tennis courts and . . . why didn't it sound as perfect as it used to?

I closed the scrapbook with a sigh. It would all be worth it—I knew it would be—and Griff would thank me for it. Someday when he'd married himself a Lowell or a Warren, he'd thank God he hadn't married Ellis Eton. Although maybe, from time to time, when he'd see me in a movie,
he'd think . . . “What if?” He would be the hometown boy, and I'd be the girl who got away, and everything would be just fine. There was nothing to worry about. I was a good actress, and I'd be a complete success. I knew I would be. Didn't I have everyone down at the switchboard convinced that I was Janie?

“Why—you aren't Janie!” Some of the girls at my normal table were taking a correspondence class and had filled the table with books, so I'd sat down at a different table, and now one of the girls was peering over at me in the dining room as if I'd just revealed myself to be some awful ogre. All I'd done was ask did she know if there were any fish knives.

“Shh!” Miss Hastings was nearing, and I didn't want to be noticed by her any more than I already had been.

“But—where's Janie?”

I smiled in an especially Janie sort of way, with my lips closed and my mouth turned up only ever-so-slightly at the edges. “She's not here. But I am. She asked me to pretend to be her.”

The girl looked at me askance. “Well . . . if it's all right with her . . .”

“Jane Winslow?” The supervisor looked out over the dining room.

How would Janie have answered? I stood, hands folded in front of me. “Right here, ma'am.”

“You clocked in five minutes late both Friday and today.”

Those who hadn't been watching us now turned around in order to do so.

“If this job isn't important to you, I'm certain I can find a girl to which it is.”

“Oh! It is. I promise you it is. I won't be late again. Ever. I promise!”

She sent a doubtful look my way and then left.

I made my way to Doris's table with shaking hands.

She greeted me with a frown. “I told you to stay out of her way.”

“I'm trying!”

“Being late is not the way to do it.”

“I'm not trying. To be late, that is. But I
am
trying. I'm really trying.” I was!

“Well, you better try harder, or Janie's going to be out her job.”

The other girls were glaring at me as if they agreed.

“And she really needs this, now that her mother's passed.”

One of the girls crossed herself.

“I know she does.” That's why I'd agreed to help. I just had to get through to the end of the week without messing up again . . . and then I'd buy my train ticket and I'd go to Hollywood just like I'd always planned.

After work, back by the orphan asylum, I climbed inside the car and let it take me home. Father hadn't returned, so I ran upstairs, pulled the receipt with the telephone numbers from my desk drawer, and took it down to his office to start making telephone calls. You'd think it would have been easy, just calling up sixty different telephone numbers, but an hour later, I wasn't even halfway through.

“Tremont-4621.”

“One moment, please.”

The telephone went silent before someone on the other line picked up. “Hello?” A woman.

“Is the man of the house in, please?”

“Naw. He's still at work.”

I hung up and then drew a circle around the telephone number. I'd decided if I couldn't get a man on the phone the first time I called a number, I'd call again later. I put a hand to my back and stretched as I looked at my list. I'd made twenty telephone calls, and I still hadn't recognized a single voice.

I picked up the handset again and put it to my ear.

The operator picked up the call. “Hello?”

“Tremont-4577.”

“One moment, please.”

Another silence and then a new voice. “Hello?” A man!

“Hello. This is Miss Smith. Is John there?”

“John? I think you got the wrong number, miss.”

Something sounded familiar about his voice. If I could just get him to say
royal
. Or
picture
. “Are you sure this is the wrong number?”

“It is if you're asking for John.”

“What if—” Think! “What if I weren't? What if I were asking for someone else?”

“Who you asking for?”

“What if I asked for you?”

“Is that what you're doing?”

Was I . . . ? “Sure. That's what I'm doing.”

“So whadda you want?”

“I want to . . .” How could I get him to say the right word? “I want to . . .”

“Listen, I haven't got all day.”

“I know. I'm sorry, I just was wanting to know something about . . . about hanging pictures.” Hanging pictures? Oysters and clambakes! He was going to think I was some kind of nut.

“Pitchers?”

It
was
him! “Yes. And I was thinking . . . what I thought was . . . maybe we could . . . meet.”

“Pitchers? You want to meet to talk about hanging pitchers? Is this some kind of a prank?”

“No! No pranks. Someone gave me your name and said you were good at hanging pictures. King did. King was the one. He gave me your name.”

“King! King said that about me? I guess, I mean I've put up pitchers before . . . but . . . who are you again?”

“He said I could count on you.” What on
earth
was I saying?

“For pitchers? That's a new one.”

A female voice called out somewhere in the background.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and hushed. “Listen. I'm kind of busy right now. But I could slip out later. Where you want to meet?”

Rats! I hadn't thought this far ahead. “We could . . .” It couldn't be any place too obvious. I wanted to see him, but I didn't want him to see me. “We could meet . . .” Where?! Not at the Common or the Public Garden. And I didn't want him anywhere I'd normally be. “Why not at that—” I lowered my voice—“speakeasy. By that grocery in the North End.”

“The grocery in the North End? There's about fifty groceries in the North End. Who did you say you are again?”

“It's just . . . I can't remember the name. It starts with a
Z
.”

“The one by Zanfini's? Sure. I know it. Give me an hour, and I'll meet you there.”

A
n hour? I didn't even know if I could find that grocery again. And now I had to be there in an hour?

Someone rapped on the door.

I pushed the telephone away, palmed my list, and folded my hands in my lap. “Come in.”

A maid curtsied. “Your father is waiting in the dining room, miss.”

Thank goodness he hadn't come into the office! “Tell him . . . tell him I won't be eating tonight.”

“Miss?”

“I won't be eating supper.” At least not here with him.

“Are you—are you sure?”

“Quite. And besides, I have to run out. For work. You can tell him that if he asks.”

I went up to my room and replaced my dress with a middy blouse and skirt and exchanged my satin pumps for my galoshes just in case I had to do some running. I only hoped I wouldn't have to dodge any bullets! Grabbing one of my mother's old hats and my pocketbook, I tiptoed down the
servants' stair and found the driver playing cards out in the garage with the gardener.

They both stood as they saw me.

“I need to go to the North End.”

“Where did you say again, miss?” The driver was squinting out the front window.

“To a grocery.”

He drove down a street that seemed impossibly narrow and then jerked to a stop. “Is it this one?”

Was it? I bent to peer out the window. “No.”

“But . . . you're sure it's here? Somewhere?”

“I'm sure. It starts with a
Z
. Zanetti's . . . Zeffanini's . . . something like that.”

He turned a corner and came face-to-face with a brick wall. “I'm afraid—”

“It's got to be around here somewhere.” We were in the North End. I could smell it: coffee, garlic, and . . . something rotten.

“Yes, miss.” He reversed, turned the car around, and headed down the street in the opposite direction.

“Perhaps . . . that way.” I pointed to the right.

“We've already been that way.” He turned left.

Really? All these streets seemed the same.

He drove down one block. Then another. “Is it this one, miss?”

I looked through the window. Zanfini's. “That's it!”

“Should I wait?” A rough-looking character out on the street gave the car a long look as he passed by. “Are you going to be long, miss?”

“I rather think not.” Although . . . I didn't know. Not exactly. The man had said to meet him in an hour, but how dependable would he be? “Maybe . . . could you park around the corner?”

He raised a brow, but he did as I had asked.

Now I had to figure out where to stand. There were lots of people walking past, but they were all Italians. I pulled my hat down a bit lower in order to hide my face. A mistake. I had to be able to see.

But not
be
seen.

I didn't really fit in, even in my skirt and blouse. And no one else was just standing around, and definitely not beside the speakeasy. Those who came slipped down the stairs and disappeared inside quick as you could say . . . well . . . quick!

I looked up the street and then down. There wasn't any place to hide. I glanced at my watch, but it wasn't there. I'd forgotten to put it on. And that man might be here any minute!

Maybe I could go inside the grocery. It was on the corner. If I stood in just the right place, I might be able to see the street and the entrance to the speakeasy. I stepped across the alley and went into the store.

A man was standing near the door. He smiled.

I smiled back. It smelled heavenly. Like a giant bowl full of . . . something really good. An old woman was stirring a pot that sat on a stove against the back wall. My, but there were an awful lot of vegetables. And fruit. Fruits. Was it fruit or fruits? Fruit and vegetables or fruits and vegetables? I'm sure I ought to have learned that somewhere. Fruit or fruits? I suppose . . . they served a fruit salad at the club, not a
fruits
salad. So there was an awful lot of
fruit
in the grocery. Some very nice-looking strawberries. I reached a hand toward a small basket filled with them.

The man stepped from the corner and lifted it for me. “You would like?”

“No. No, thank you. I'm just looking.”

Over across the way were some gorgeously shiny grapes. I picked a bunch up.

He stepped over and held out his hand like a teacher waiting for an examination booklet.

I put them into it.

“Not this one.” He put it back and picked up another bunch. “You like this one.”

They both looked the same to me. I nodded though. It didn't seem like he understood I didn't want to buy anything. I pointed toward the window at the corner.

“You want one of those?” He went to stand beside a crate filled with green clumpy things that looked like they had warts on them.

No. I didn't. At least . . . I didn't think I did. I didn't know what they were. I wished he would just leave me alone. I smiled and then walked past him toward the window. Standing there, right in the corner, I could see the entrance to the speakeasy. Perfect! Now I just had to wait for someone who seemed like he was waiting for someone. And then I'd know who one of those people on the telephone was and who to keep a lookout for when I was around Griff. Although . . . I still wouldn't know his name. But I knew his telephone number, and when I went to work tomorrow I could look it up.

As I stood there, a tall, large man with a cleft chin walked
by. If the man I was looking for was anything like him, then I didn't think I needed to know his name. At all. I'd surely never forget what he looked like. Why, if his hair were darker and he were more clean-shaven and dressed in a suit instead of a sweater . . . if he didn't have that cleft in his chin and his eyebrows were thicker, then he'd look just like the actor Tony Moreno! I thought he might be the telephone man, but he went right on past the speakeasy and never once turned around.

My, but whatever was cooking smelled good!

I glanced over my shoulder toward the stove. The old woman was still stirring that pot. Someone had come in and looked as if they were buying a bowl of it. Opening up my pocketbook, I collected the change from the remainder of the previous week's allowance, which had fallen to the bottom as I kept an eye on the window. Eighty-three cents.

I wondered . . . was it enough to buy a bowl?

A couple of men sauntered past. I let the change fall back into the pocketbook. Maybe later I'd buy a bowl. Right now I had to keep an eye on the speakeasy. And I would have, except at that moment a young woman walked over.

“You are fine?”

I glanced over at her and nodded.

“I help you?”

I shook my head, wishing she'd just go away.

“You want fruit? Vegetable?”

Maybe . . . I reached back into my pocketbook for the change and then handed it to her. “Is it enough for some of that . . . a bowl of . . . ?” I gestured toward the stove with my chin.

“Ah! You want minestrone?”

“Yes.” If it would keep her from distracting me.

Her smile lit up her face making her look almost beautiful. “Mama make the best. I bring you.”

She took the coins from me, and I turned back toward the window. There was someone loitering by the stairs now, but he wasn't very suspicious-looking. He seemed more like a gardener than a murderer in his coveralls and his dirty cap. In the movies all the bad guys wore fedoras and suits, inside which they always seemed to hide their guns. This man didn't look as if he could hide anything at all, he was that skinny.

He started down the stairs several times, but he always turned around and came up again.

“Take.” The woman was holding a bowl out to me with both hands.

“Thank you.” I dipped the spoon in and took a taste. It was even better than it smelled.

“You like.” It wasn't a question but it deserved an answer.

“Yes.”

“Bene.”
She nodded and then turned and stood next to me. “You watch someone?”

I nodded.

“Come from there?” She pointed toward the speakeasy.

“Yes.”

“Not good people. Lots of smiles. Lots of laughs. From here.” She pointed to her mouth. “Not from here.” She pointed to her heart.

She seemed rather smart for a foreigner. The man was still out there, and by the time I had finished the soup he hadn't left. Was he the telephone man? I wished I'd remembered my
watch. It seemed like I'd been inside the grocery for a while, but there was no way to be sure. Shadows had begun to devour the stairway to the speakeasy—it must be getting late.

The woman whisked the empty bowl from my hands and then took it back to the stove. She conferred with the man who'd tried to make me buy things and then came back. “I'm sorry. You leave now.”

“Not yet.” I wanted to wait a few more minutes to see if anyone else came.

“You leave now. We close.”

Oh. “Oh! I'm sorry. You're closing.”

“Sì.”

“Uh . . . well . . . thank you.”

She was standing, hands folded atop her apron. Waiting.

“I guess I'll just . . . I'll go now.”

“Grazie.”

She followed me to the door, then locked it right behind me.

As I stepped out from under the awning, the man in front of the speakeasy looked at me and then his gaze drifted onward. Was it him or not?

I guessed there was only one way to find out. I walked in his direction, and when I got to the speakeasy, I stopped. And then I tried my very best to be Janie. “Excuse me. Do you have the time?”

He'd stepped down onto the stairway, which led to the basement entrance. Squinting up at me, he pulled a watch from his pocket. “Sure.”

Sure? Sure didn't tell me anything. I had to get him to say pictures. Or royal!

“It's seven.”

That late? “It's a very nice evening.”

“Yeah.” He eyed me and then stepped up and out of the way. “You going in?”

“Me? No. I don't think so.” I didn't want to, but how could I get him to say those words? “Why? Are you?”

“Don't know. I'm waiting for someone.”

Maybe he was waiting for me!

He squinted up at me. “Some doll. Say, you don't need any help with pitchers, do you?”

“Pitchers?” It
was
him. I tried not to smile. “I don't think so.”

“Forget it. Forget I mentioned it. I guess she's not coming.”

I backed away toward the alley, where I hoped the car was still waiting. “Thank you. For the time.”

He gave me a wave as if to say it was nothing. But he'd given me something after all. An up-close look at his face.